4. Cloe
CLOE
The elevator doors opened onto the executive floor, and the air shifted—again.
Colder.
Smoother.
Sharper.
It smelled like expensive leather and richer blood.
Not office air. Not city air. This was something else.
I stepped out, the files for Loyal clutched tight in my arms, and instantly felt out of place. Not just unwanted. Invasive. Like a paper cut in the middle of a diamond showroom.
My shoes clicked against the polished floor with a hollow, insecure rhythm. The right heel had started peeling at the edge—only noticeable if you looked close, but I felt it with every step.
The women on this floor didn’t walk. They glided. Their heels made confident, rhythmic taps. Mine sounded apologetic.
I passed reception. The secretary didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. She already knew I didn’t belong. I turned the corner. And there he was .
Wolfe .
He stood at the head of a sleek glass table in the alcove near the mezzanine. His posture relaxed but commanding. Effortless. Like the whole floor tilted toward him.
He was surrounded by three women.
All of them beautiful in the way legacy money makes women look. Sculpted hair. Glossed lips. Fitted dresses in tones too pale to get dirty.
They laughed softly. Flirted without trying. One of them reached out and touched his sleeve. Another leaned in, brushing his forearm with perfectly manicured nails.
He didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch. Just smiled. That almost-smile. The one that never touched his eyes. It was the most I’d seen him emote all week.
Something twisted inside my chest. I should’ve looked away. Should’ve kept walking. But I didn’t.
I watched. Watched the way his jaw flexed when he tilted his head to listen. Watched the way the dark fabric of his shirt stretched just slightly over his biceps when he crossed his arms.
God, those hands.
Thick fingers. Veined. Strong.
I remembered the brush of one against my back in the hallway. Just one accidental pass. And I hadn’t stopped thinking about it since. My stomach fluttered. Heat bloomed low and unwelcome between my thighs. I hated myself for it.
I shifted the files in my arms, just to give myself something to do—something that wasn’t staring.
And then?—
Wolfe looked up.
Directly at me.
Dead on.
Like he’d known I was there the whole time. The laughter around him softened. Muted .
One of the women turned, tracking his gaze. Her smile faltered when she saw me. Their eyes landed on me like I was gum stuck to the marble.
Wolfe didn’t smirk.
Didn’t soften.
He just stared.
Once. Slowly.
And then his gaze dropped. Down my body. Not fast. Not like it surprised him. Like it was deliberate. A statement.
His eyes skimmed the curve of my blouse. The dip of my waist. The hem of my skirt. The files in my hands trembled. He dragged his gaze back up. Unhurried.
When our eyes met again, I forgot how to breathe. Because he wasn’t looking at me like I was a mistake. He was looking at me like I was next.
I stood there, motionless. The hallway behind me carried voices. The buzz of admin meetings. The scent of overpriced coffee.
But I felt none of it.
I felt only him.
Watching.
Assessing.
Claiming— without touching.
And then, just as casually as he’d looked, Wolfe turned back to the women around him.
Like I hadn’t mattered. Like I’d been measured and shelved. But the weight of his gaze stayed. Pressed between my thighs. Crawled beneath my blouse.
I forced myself to walk.
Not too fast. Not too slow. Just enough to pretend I was still in control. But my chest was tight. And the files dug into my arms. And my panties were damp with shame I refused to name.
This floor wasn’t just colder.
It was his.
Heat punched through me—unwanted, unwelcome, undeniable. I turned. Walked faster than I should have.
The files were wrinkled at the corners by the time I reached Loyal’s office. My arms ached from gripping them too tightly, but I didn’t loosen my hold. Couldn’t. They were the only thing keeping me from unraveling.
But all I could feel was Wolfe’s gaze. Still there. Still crawling across my spine like a brand I hadn’t asked for. Like a name I hadn’t earned.
I made it ten steps before I felt him behind me. Not footsteps. Not breath. Just… presence. The way a shadow stretches before you see the man casting it.
I kept walking, trying not to look back. Fast but not panicked. Controlled. Or trying to be.
The files crushed tighter to my chest, my heart beating beneath them like it was trying to escape.
You weren’t watching him.
You weren’t jealous.
Lies .
I could still feel the heat between my thighs. The shame. The confusion.
Still hear the effortless laugh of the woman who touched his arm like she’d done it a thousand times. Who looked at me like she already knew what I wasn’t: chosen.
I turned the corner.
And stopped short.
He was already there. Leaning against the wall across from the elevators. Waiting. Like he knew where I’d end up before I did. His arms were crossed. His stance casual.
But his eyes? —
They weren’t casual at all. They were locked on mine. Dead on. Sharp enough to pin me to the marble.
My breath caught. He straightened. Stepped forward. Not fast. Just steady. Confident. Predators didn’t need to move fast when the prey was already cornered.
I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.
He stopped inches away. So close I could smell him. Leather. Soap. Clean linen twisted with something darker—like smoke or danger bottled.
He looked down at the files in my arms. Then up. Past my collarbone. My mouth. Back to my eyes.
“You watching me, Cloe?”
His voice was soft. Curious. Deceptively calm. My lips parted. No words came out.
“I—I wasn’t?—”
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Too sharp. Too knowing.
“You weren’t watching when Ava touched my arm?”
Ava.
So one of them had a name.
He stepped closer. I had to tilt my chin up to keep eye contact. Every instinct screamed at me to look away. But I didn’t.
“I was just… passing through,” I whispered.
“Hmm.”
His eyes dropped. Skimmed over me. My chest. My waist. The hem of my skirt. He didn’t linger. He didn’t leer. He cataloged. Efficient. Unapologetic. The heat returned. Worse than before. My thighs clenched. My skin flushed.
I hated it. I hated him. But most of all, I hated myself for the part of me that wanted to stay frozen in place.
“You weren’t jealous?” he asked, voice still quiet.
I hesitated .
Then lied.
“Why would I be?”
He chuckled.
Soft.
Cruel.
Like the sound of silk tearing.
“Because you, little girl, stare at me like you want to be touched.”
The words slid under my skin and dug their nails in.
I stiffened. My knees locked. He didn’t touch me. Didn’t have to. The air between us throbbed like a warning. He let the silence stretch. Long. Long enough to drown in. Then?—
“You’re not like them.”
My heart tried to leap at the words. Almost. Almost softened. Almost let hope in. Until he added?—
“You’re not meant to be seen.”
It landed like a verdict.
Final.
Brutal.
True.
And the worst part?
It cut deeper than anything else he could have said.
He turned. Walked past me. His shoulder brushed mine. Not accidentally. Not hard. Just enough to make me feel it. And then he was gone. Gone before I could answer. Gone before I could fall apart.
But I did. Inside. Silently.
I didn’t go back to my desk. I couldn’t. Not after that. Not with his words echoing in my skull like scripture.
You’re not meant to be seen.
It wasn’t just humiliation.
It was recognition.
A mirror I hadn’t asked for, held up by the only man in the building who looked at me like I was something to be dissected—not desired.
Not claimed.
Not loved.
Just… noticed.
Long enough to be dismissed.
I pushed open the bathroom door and locked it behind me.
The lights were too bright.
Artificial.
Merciless.
The tile was too clean. It didn’t feel comforting. It felt clinical. Like a place meant to sterilize mistakes.
The mirror didn’t lie.
That was the worst part.
I stood there for a long second, gripping the edge of the sink with both hands, my knuckles going white against the porcelain. I wanted to look away. I didn’t.
Because the reflection mattered.
My curls had flattened on one side. Frizz at the edges. My eyeliner was smudged, mascara clinging to the lower lash line like bruises. My lipstick was gone except for a dark stain on the corners of my mouth.
The cheap blouse I’d ironed twice this morning clung to the wrong places—too tight around the chest, too loose around the waist. My skirt had twisted, riding high at the waistband, cinching at my hips like a warning sign.
I didn’t look seductive.
I looked scraped together.
Like someone had tried to build a woman out of clearance racks and desperation.
Wolfe’s voice still echoed in my mind.
You’re not meant to be seen.
I swallowed .
Hard.
That one sentence had stripped more off me than if he’d reached beneath my skirt and dragged his fingers across my skin. It wasn’t just cruel.
It was accurate.
I wasn’t like the women he let into his space. I wasn’t effortless. I wasn’t polished.
But still?—
He’d looked.
I exhaled shakily and reached into my bag.
My fingers found it instantly.
The gold casing.
Still cold.
Still heavy.
Obedience .
I pulled it out, slow.
The lipstick shimmered under the too-bright bathroom lights. The word carved into the side glinted like a threat. Or a promise.
I turned the cap.
Twisted the stick.
The color looked darker than before. Richer. Deeper. Like it had absorbed every humiliation I’d endured since stepping into this building.
I raised it to my lips.
Paused.
Just for a second.
One breath.
Then I applied it—slowly. Carefully. With precision I didn’t know I still had.
Bottom lip. Then top.
No smudge this time.
No tremble .
The red bloomed on my mouth like a wound. Like power. It didn’t make me feel strong. Didn’t make me feel sexy. But it made me feel something I hadn’t felt in days.
Intentional .
Like every stroke of that color gave me an inch of control. Even if it wasn’t real. Even if it was borrowed. Even if it was given to me by the same man who’d just torn me in half with a single sentence.
I leaned forward. Stared at myself in the mirror. Harder this time. My eyes still looked tired. But they were sharper.
Focused .
“If you’re not meant to be seen,” I whispered.
My voice didn’t shake. It didn’t rise. It just… existed.
“I guess that means I should make them look harder.”
I didn’t smile. Not at first. But something flickered at the corner of my mouth. A smirk. A shadow of one. The kind of expression you make when you know you're breaking. And choose to keep going anyway.
I pressed my hand to the edge of the sink. Steadier now. Just barely. And then I walked out of the bathroom.
Obedience on my lips.
And defiance blooming just beneath it.